


Silent Souls

by Yeoyou



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, problematic religious stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-03 07:40:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11527659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeoyou/pseuds/Yeoyou
Summary: Percival Graves didn't allow himself the delusion of thinking himself  a good man. But neither did he believe that he was particularly bad. So the rumour that he had no soul should have been without foundation.And yet the suspiciously spotless skin of his wrist seemed to say otherwise. For what other explanation could there be for the absence of any markings, any words stitching his soul together with another's, than that he had no soul at all?No soul. No soulmate. The logic was irrefutable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [Silent Souls (Vietnamese translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16751119) by [Kataly_Malfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kataly_Malfoy/pseuds/Kataly_Malfoy)



Percival Graves didn't allow himself the delusion of thinking himself a good man. But neither did he believe that he was particularly bad. Yes, he was strict with his aurors and only demanded their best but then he demanded nothing less of himself. And although he sometimes found it difficult to relate to his fellow wizards and witches, not to mention the countless no-maj roaming the city, he bore them no ill will. Instead, he did everything he could to protect them. So the rumour that he had no soul should have been without foundation.

And yet the suspiciously spotless skin of his wrist seemed to say otherwise. For what other explanation could there be for the absence of any markings, any words stitching his soul together with another's, than that he had no soul at all?

No soul. No soulmate. The logic was irrefutable.

Graves found himself staring into the mirror more and more frequently in the morning. Shaving. Brushing his teeth. Getting dressed. All the while searching his eyes for any hint of lack. If the eyes truly were the windows to the soul, Graves wasn't sure what his showed. He'd battled serial killers whose eyes had seemed truly empty or consumed by an inner mania or simply dead. His just showed confusion. And, if he was completely honest with himself, longing.

As a kid, he – and everybody else – had thought he was a freak when no words appeared during puberty. He watched his classmates laughing and cracking jokes and comparing the words on their wrists.

He'd considered faking it. It shouldn't have been too hard. But pride had held him back. So instead he'd buried himself in his studies, determined to become the best, to show the world his worth by beating all his smiling, stupid, childish fellow students at that which really counted. Magical power and knowledge became his armour and hiding place.

Then there'd been the phase of rebellion, of declaring himself freed of the shackles that bound all the others. Of revelling in a supposed freedom to truly do what he wanted with his life. He'd believed it, too, for a while. That not being bound to some stranger made him special and better than anyone else. He climbed the ladder of success, unhindered by concerns of anyone but himself. He wasted no time searching, looking over his shoulder, and went into every new encounter knowing fully well that he was secure and unbound. There was power in that and he wielded it well.

But when the grey started to paint his temples and the lines on his face deepened, he faced the truth. That he was doomed to a life of loneliness, watching other people being happy, while he remained alone. And suddenly his freedom didn't seem so desirable anymore.

For a while, he developed the deplorable habit of rubbing his empty wrist whenever he saw the happy couples passing him by in the streets, holding hands and hearts and not letting go. It was only due to his resolute will that he dropped the habit again, that he dropped and buried the longing in his heart. And the rumours of his lack of soul screamed all the louder at him.

Years passed by. Not devoid of touch but devoid of connection. No strings to hold him back but also none to hold him when he fell. And the whispers never stopped.

_It's unnatural._

_I'm glad he's on our side._

_He must be so lonely._

He knew the others pitied him – at least those that weren't afraid or disgusted – and he hated it. Hated the assumption that he needed pity. That he was somehow less then them just because he had nobody in his life he treasured more than his own life. More than his work and duties. Couldn't they see what an advantage it was, in a Director of Magical Security, not to have that weakness? Not to be that vulnerable. Where they saw grounds for pity, he saw strength. Had to see strength to bear the emptiness of his live. On most days, he succeeded.

And then there was the boy. The man. The curious man-child in his ill-fitting clothes, the least appealing hair-cut anybody could ever have devised, and trying to hide in his own skin. Skin that fit too closely to the bones underneath. Hardly any flesh to separate the outside from the inside, to shield him from the cold.

Graves saw him, watched him, seemed to feel him in his bones. Ached and agonised and had no idea why. And so he watched some more, watched the lost creature huddle in corners and timidly handing pamphlets to strangers and passers-by. Watched him stomping his boots discreetly to keep his toes from freezing, blow into his hands. Watched him cower from the woman half his size.

Watched until he could watch no more.

They were not hasty steps that gobbled up the distance between them as he stepped off the curb that day. They were as precise and determined as always as his feet carried him across the road, bringing him ever closer to the creature nestled in his head and heart.

The boy noticed his approach at last, teetered on the spot, insecure and afraid. Always afraid. 

Graves was intimidating even when he didn't mean to. It had become second nature, to stand taller, to carry himself with all the authority he had now finally achieved. Because he was not inferior to his fellow beings. Had never been. No matter what the spotless skin on his wrist proclaimed.

His eyes fell towards the boy's wrist and he scowled as he saw the thick web of scars. He caught the wrist as the boy tried to duck away, not sure why or how he had angered the imposing man in his impeccable suit but driven by a hard-won instinct of impending trouble. But Graves didn't let him go, felt the quickening pulse of the boy echoing in his own veins.

His fingers rubbed over the scars almost tenderly. Of course. Of course they wouldn't let them have even that. Any other love but the love for God would be forbidden to these children of hunger and pain.

“What's your name, boy?”

Still shaking, still afraid but with something else flitting across his features, the boy slowly tugged at a rough cord around his neck, fumbled with the card dangling from it and finally held it so that Graves could read it.

_ I can't speak. Please take a pamphlet. God bless you. _

And Graves laughed.

Bound at last.

Free at last.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can thank Nimue_8 for the existence of this chapter (well, and me, but I wouldn't have written it without their encouragement!)

Credence Barebone had never had the luxury of thinking himself to be good and had accepted readily enough that he was bad. So when the woman he called “mother” took the hot iron and burned his wrist so that no words could ever appear, he screamed and sobbed and thanked her. Because now he could not be tempted to love anyone better than God. Because now he would never tempt another, never taint them with his own wickedness.

And yet he rubbed the scars, lying awake at night on his hard bed, under his thin blanket in his threadbare nightshirt, shivering. He felt the melted flesh under his fingertips and tried to imagine the words that might have been there instead. Devil's writing, Ma called those words, those writings that lured people from their faith into forgetting, into sin. Sometimes, secretly, Credence wished to be lured away and to follow the Devil's calling. He watched the couples in the streets and no matter how fine or dirty their clothes were, they looked happier together than he had ever felt alone. Ma preached of God's love but all Credence saw was people loving each other. And if that was the Devil's doing, wasn't it better to follow him? To worship the one who brought light into so many lives?

He tried to beat those thoughts down because he knew that Ma would beat harder, if only she knew of them. Because he was afraid of hell even though he didn't know how it could be worse than this life he clung to. He kept his head down but he couldn't stop watching. Couldn't stop listening. There was nothing else to do all day. There was just the cold and the hunger and the pamphlets and all of them were pain. Love was a light of distraction.

He waited and wondered in the recesses of his mind, while his body prayed, while his body offered paper to strangers, while his body wept.

And then there was the man, the stranger, the curious ghost haunting him. The city grime never did seem to settle on him, the cold never seemed to penetrate his skin. He was always there, at the periphery, watching him, until that gaze followed him even into his dreams and he shivered. He told himself it was fear, a healthy wariness of the unknown. If only he could believe it, it would cease to be a lie and he would not have to punish himself for it.

Nobody ever seemed to notice the stranger, although how anyone could not was beyond Credence. The man radiated power, power that pulled at Credence, caught his wrists and ankles and seemed able to drag him off if he just dared to lift a foot. He tried to ignore him, tried to stop his eyes from stealing glances at the handsome stranger in the impeccable suit. In vain.

And then Credence knew. It must be the devil himself, calling him, luring him, and he was afraid because he wanted nothing more than to follow him, wherever he may lead. He was being tested and failure was inevitable. He had never been good after all. Had been doomed from the start. Couldn't say “no.”

He wavered, felt like fainting, when the man stepped off the sidewalk and steered his steps towards him. It was too much though of what he could not say. Want? Fear? It all felt the same to Credence. The quickening pulse, the rushing blood. He knew he should flee and seek salvation in the pain struck by belt, by cane, by hand. And yet he could not, would not flee.

The man wasn't as tall as he had expected from up close but more dangerously handsome, more powerful and when he grabbed Credence's wrist, he seemed to burn the skin again.

“What's your name, boy?”

Not the silken tones of a devil's tongue but rougher, deeper. He could hear the echo in his bones.

Credence tugged at the string around his neck, at the card attached to it, fumbling for the words that weren't his own.

_I can't speak. Please take a pamphlet. God bless you._

The devil laughed and Credence felt safe for the first time.

Bound at last.

Free at last.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue struggled a bit but here it is and will hopefully not disappoint ^^ One happy ending for Nimue_8 who convinced me that those two idiots need some more love. I think they will get enough of that now ;)

Maybe it didn't matter whether they were good or bad. As long as they were happy. As long as the warmth of Graves' arms banished the cold from Credence's bones. As long as the tender touch of Credence's lips melted Graves' heart.

Maybe it didn't matter if it was Magic, or God, or the Devil that bound them together. They couldn't have broken the bond even if they had wanted to.

Maybe nothing mattered. The world ceased to exist beyond their embrace, just blurred shadows devoid of colour and sense.

There was no hesitation in Credence when Graves took his hand and spirited them away from the spot in the cold street, Graves' own coat slung across his bony shoulders. The boy would have followed him anywhere and wasn't sure whether the richly furnished town house was what he had expected or not but it made sense that the devil would live in style. Nor did the magic Graves obviously possessed shock him much. Ma had warned him of the devil's tricks but all he did was to warm his body, to conjure food for him and to heal his wounds. God's love had never done any of that for him.

Graves was surprised at Credence's docility, how unflappable this abused boy was at everything he showed him. He hadn't expected it but was grateful. For surely it meant that the boy felt it too, the rightness of their connection, the singing blood, the slight tremble running along his every nerve just because he was able to touch him.

There were no markings on their wrist but the fact that they belonged together was written on the wall of every cell, raced along every nerve. The truth of it was in their lungs, under their fingernails, nestled behind their ears. It whispered in their veins.

It was only after days of getting used to each other, of getting to know their bodies and souls, their likes and dislikes, that Graves introduced Credence properly into the magical world and Credence frowned at the sheer number of witches and wizards he had never known about. He frowned at Graves' offer of teaching him silent spells in case there was magic in his bones. He frowned because how could anyone be as powerful as his devil? How could his Mr. Graves be just one among many? It didn't seem right.

It took time and the realisation that Graves was not the devil, had never been, but was indeed among the most skilled and feared wizards, to calm Credence's nerves. Because his trust and belief in him hadn't been misplaced. Because it was the very ability of incinerating him on the spot that made Credence feel safe with Graves. Because Ma and Ma's vengeful God could never be a match for him. He was protected. He was loved. He was home.

It was here that he could turn into a man at last, stretch his wings and find out who he truly was. A man among men. A wizard among wizards. A lover, a confidante, a friend. A treasure.

One of Two.

They didn't need silly first words on their skin. They had found each other without their guidance and Graves knew enough charms, enough ways to spell the only two words, the only names that mattered, onto their wrists.

And nobody would ever doubt whether Graves had a soul because they could see it with their own eyes, standing there, next to him. Proud and tall and strong.

 


End file.
